Siblings
by FollowtheAurora
Summary: Jimmy and Neena aren't ordinary children.
1. Chapter 1

There's darkness.

I can't see a thing.

The lights went out all at once. A power cut?

Where's my brother?

"Jimmy?"

There's no one there…

What?

I'm touching the wall. There's large scratch marks.

_Run Neena._

That's what Jimmy calls me.

_Run pretty girly. Run far away Neena._

I can feel them. Why is my brother's nickname for me scratched on the walls?

What?

The lights went off as soon as I entered the room. Jimmy was with me a second ago.

Wasn't he?

No.

No, he wasn't.

I heard him calling, but I didn't see him.

_Run away, Neena._

_Run run run, pretty._

**CRACK!**

I duck. I scream.

The bullet ricochets off the wall and smashes the mirror.

"Run Neena…"

I don't breathe.

Jimmy sounds… the same.

I always think he's going to sound different when he flips.

He never does.

"Run, pretty girly!"

The Irish lilt in Jimmy's voice sounds creepy when he's crooning my name with a gun in his hand.

I wonder if my voice sounds the same when I flip.

But we never remember our flips.

**CRACK!**

Another bullet. I don't scream this time. The last one just caught me by surprise.

Boy, if I had a penny for every time I'd ducked behind this couch to avoid Jimmy's bullets…

The scratches are a nice touch though. He's never done that before.

One day Jimmy will flip for good.

Flip and stay flipped.

That's what my mum said.

She was my fault, really.

No more bullets.

"Neena?"

Jimmy's back.

"I'm fine." I stand back up again.

Jimmy is unloading the gun onto the table. He hand the bullets to me. He always does, I don't know why. I keep mine.

I'd never let Jimmy get his little paws on _my _ammo.

"Sorry," Jimmy says, his little eleven-year-old voice high and sincere. "Sorry Neena."

I put the bullets in my pocket.

"It's fine Jimmy," I say. I can never understand why he always apologises.

He only flipped.

God knows I'm worse when I flip.

He only almost shot me.

That's not bad.

"Let's clean up. This place is a tip."

**Ok, I have… pretty much no idea where the idea for this came from. Just to clarify, in case anybody is confused, Jimmy is Jim Moriarty, and Neena is not an OC. Can anybody guess who she is? ****J**

**It's a bit disjointed as yet, but all will be explained!**

**-FollowTheAurora**

**EDIT, 15/08/2014: I fixed a little error with Jimmy's age in this chapter. If his birthday is when I've put it, he should be eleven in this chapter, not ten.**


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy wakes up in the middle of the night again.

He cries for mummy.

Sometimes he forgets she's not here anymore.

She would always tell us to do stuff, but we had to ask her to do something we wanted.

I remember thinking that was rude.

She'd tell us, "Don't talk to those children." "Stay inside." "Don't let anybody in."

Dad was worse though.

He'd always tell us we were freaks, the lot of us.

Apparently it's only the three of us that flip.

Me and Mummy and Jimmy.

Well, only two now.

Dad was always telling us he was normal, and we all ought to be locked up.

Telling us we were mutants. Weirdos. _Freaks._

I didn't like Dad a whole lot. I told him so.

He always said he'd sort me out. _Cheeky madam._

Then Jimmy flipped, and sorted _him _out.

Serve him right.

I hold Jimmy on my lap and begin to tell him his favourite story, the story of my first flip.

It was my ninth birthday. Mum made me a cake, and she locked Dad in the bedroom especially for me, to keep him out of the way. Jimmy was only eight.

We had party poppers, and the colours and the lights just got in my eyes, and it was like there were bugs crawling on the inside of my skull, my brain was fizzing and bubbling and overloading…

Nothing faded to black. My vision wasn't obscured. I just remember taking a step forward, and for me it was like I had taken a step forward in time without knowing it.

Mum and Jimmy were huddled under the table. Mum had a gash on her arm, and the blood was dripping onto the lino. I was holding a kitchen knife. Jimmy was crying.

I remember Mum cleaned up, and sat me down, and crouched down to my height, and said, "Now Neena, I want you to listen carefully to what I am going to say to you now, and remember it." She looked the most serious I had ever seen her.

"That was a flip. You can't control them. They just happen. When you flip, you will most likely try to hurt anybody around you."

I bit my lip.

She didn't notice. "Flips don't last long. And nobody knows about them."

"Why not, Mummy?"

"Nobody understands, my sweet. Like your father says, they would lock us up. They're all… they're so…" She inhaled sharply. "Everyone around you is SUCH AN IDIOT!" She screamed the last words, and I flinched.

She bent her head. "I'm sorry, darling. Brain ran away there for a second."

That's what we always said, when we got frustrated at other people's intelligence. People on the telly. And Dad. Mum always shouted at the telly. _Brain ran away with me._ Sometimes we felt so clever. Me and Mummy and Jimmy.

Jimmy looks up at me. He's so innocent, not at all the way he looks when he flips.

I find myself thinking of Jimmy's first flip.

I begin to tell him that story. That's _my _favourite.

It was just another normal day. We were reading textbooks in the kitchen. The television was on in the background for Dad. I could usually block it out.

The news man was talking about schools. I had never been to school. Mummy taught us some things, and we figured the rest out ourselves. When I was small and Jimmy was smaller, I used to complain about it, because school looked fun on the television. Lots of children, running around, everything colourful and bright. Mummy told me we were too special to go to school. She told me she hadn't been to school either.

We were the special ones.

Me and Mummy and Jimmy.

Dad turned the television up louder, because Mum wasn't listening. Jimmy flinched. I noticed. He flinched a lot just before he flipped, back when he first started.

Mum turned away from Dad and he turned the television up louder. I repeated something Mum had said about Dad once, over and over in my head. It helps me from going mad at him when he was deliberately idiotic. "Your father is an ignorant, lazy, foul, violent slob," Mummy had said, after one of their biggest fights. It was the first time I had seen her flip.

Jimmy was twitching by this point. It was like he had a bee on his ear.

_My father is an ignorant, lazy, foul, violent slob._

_My father is an ignorant, lazy, foul, violent slob._

_My father_

A notch louder.

_Ignorant, lazy…_

Louder.

_Foul, violent…_

Louder.

_Father is an ign-_

Jimmy stood up and I knew something was wrong. Gone was his little wide-eyed expression. His pupils were blown wide. His innocent smile dragged itself into an insane grimace. He grabbed the serrated cheese knife from the breakfast table, ran over and without any warning, slit our father's throat.

No-one said a word.

Jimmy just watched as the ragged, deep cut he'd made in our father's neck slowly started to leak blood over his little hands. Dad's head just drooped, and his breathing just stopped, and then he collapsed fully onto Jimmy, who stepped back, innocence returning.

I can't say I was sad then.

I can't say that I'm sad now.

Jimmy has fallen asleep in my arms to my tales of blood and insanity. I look at his tiny fingers that once were drowning in red, at his pale lips that once stretched in a frightening grin, at closed lids that once were open and startled, reflecting the image of our father choking on his own blood and gristle and muscle and sinew, a crimson tinted picture in deep black pools.

No.

I'm not sad.

**A/N: So, I hope you're finding this creepy enough! It's a lot of fun to write. Just tell me if it's not scary enough, and I'll go full-on psychopath. ^^**

**Reviews will stop little Jimmy flipping and stabbing you with a cheese knife! :)**

**P.S Yep, you got it, Neena is Janine ^^**


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter is quite short, sorry :/ Hope you enjoy it anyways :)**

* * *

><p>The rays of morning sunlight filter through the grimy glass of the windows, illuminating Jimmy's face. He's got sooty smudges on his nose. Powder burns on his fingers and gunpowder under his nails. We'll have to give him a wash before we head out to the shop today.<p>

I had done it a lot of times before. I was still scared though.

Going outside was not something we did very often, Jimmy and I.

But we always made sure we look presentable.

_Quick out and in. _That's what mum always said. _Quick out and in._

After all, you never know when you might flip.

Jimmy's nervous too.

"Neena? Do we have to go?" His eyes are huge. He knows just how to play me.

Or rather, he knew. He still hasn't caught on that I've grown up a little. He can't charm me with his little puppy-dog face anymore.

"Do you want to starve, Jimmy?" I say, in my best mother voice.

He doesn't say anything. He just scowls.

It's frighteningly like his scowl when he flips.

We're squeaky clean, hair brushed flat, clothes neat, standing at the door. I've got my shopping list and purse in one hand, and I've got a hold of Jimmy's wrist with the other. The front door looms in front of us, a gateway to a strange world of sun and streets and shops and people.

I hate going shopping.

Jimmy turns the handle. He has a sort of sixth sense, where he can tell if I'm not going to do something. He knows I could stand in front of that door for a million years and never push it open. In many ways, Jimmy's so much braver than me.

I wish he wasn't.

The sunlight hits us, momentarily blinding me. We are quiet and small and crooked from many years in the dark. Jimmy and I.

The walk to the shop is brisk. I don't turn my head, or look around. Bright colours trigger me. I just fix my eyes on an unmoving grey cloud on the horizon and repeat the phrase that always keeps me calm.

_My father is an ignorant, lazy, foul, violent slob._

_My father is an ignorant, lazy, foul, violent slob._

The man is gone, but the significance of the words has never faded for me. I didn't flip that day.

I don't flip now.

I just keep walking, and dragging Jimmy behind me.

He seems ok too. I can't feel him twitching, thank god. We're safe for now.

We get to the shop, and I consult my shopping list. It's the one Mum wrote, way before Jimmy and I were even born, and she kept it, and she used it, and now I use it.

_The food on this shopping list will feed two people for twelve-and-a-half months._ That's written at the top of the sheet. Mummy lived her life in periods of twelve-and-a-half months. That's what Mummy did.

She shopped. She cooked. She yelled. She taught.

Then twelve-and-a-half months would go by and she would go shopping and start again.

Sometimes I'm scared I'll turn into Mum.

I shop. I cook. I teach, sometimes.

I don't yell.

(Although Jimmy says I yell when I flip).

The woman at the counter doesn't try to make conversation this time. I remember that almost set Jimmy off, two shops ago. I had to throw some money at the lady and run back home. I barely got him through the door before he flipped and started trying to strangle me.

She does give me a funny look. I suppose, in comparison to the other shoppers, Jimmy and I do buy rather a lot. We look strange too. I'm so pale in comparison to the girl standing behind me. Our clothes are odd as well. I'm in Mummy's old grey dress, from When She Was My Age. It looks a bit… outdated. Jimmy is in Grandfather's old knee-length flannel trousers and white shirt, although it's more grey, now. There are only so many sink washes an old shirt can take.

We get home.

That's an achievement in itself.

When we close the door behind us again, shutting us off from the world, I grab the permanent marker that always lies on the table in the hallway and draw another tally mark on the bare cement wall.

One more shopping trip with no problems.


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter's really quite creepy. I'm kinda proud of it :)**

**Hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

><p>We haven't had any more flips recently. Thank God.<p>

I am so _bored _of cleaning up afterwards. Those scratch marks Jimmy left on the wall took me days to cover up. I had to go down into the basement and get wallpaper paste that was almost all dried up, and we didn't have any more of the peeling wallpaper that's already weakly clinging to the wall, so I had to use _wrapping paper, _and it looks awful, but it covers up the scratches.

They didn't bother me particularly, but Jimmy didn't want to see them.

I'm cooking just now. Stirring a big pot of pasta sauce. I have to stand on a stool to reach the hob, because I'm a bit short. I won't always be, though. I'm only twelve. I'll grow.

There's a knock at the door.

I almost fall off my stool.

There hasn't been a Knock At The Door since I was five.

Jimmy runs into the kitchen. "What's that?"

He doesn't even remember the last Knock At The Door.

I put down my spoon. "Jimmy, stay here. Be very quiet. Don't move. Don't talk. Don't _breathe. _I'll be back soon."

He scrambles under the wooden legs with their crumbly white paint and puts his hand over his mouth.

With every step I take towards the door, the pull of gravity seems to get stronger, and my feet seem to get heavier, and my breaths seem to get shallower, and my heart seems to beat quicker.

I can see the silhouette of somebody behind the frosted glass.

It's a _person._

An actual _person. _Someone that isn't Mummy or Dad, or the lady behind the counter at the shop.

What do I _do?_

What do I _say?_

I'm scared I'll just stand there for ages, trying to get the courage to open the door, so I just grab the handle and _yank _it open quick.

There's a man standing there.

He's in a red uniform, and I can see his van outside. It's a postman.

"Hello," he says politely. "Is your mum in?"

"No," I answer stiffly, wondering if he can see the stains on my dress from where the pasta sauce has spilled. "I'm sorry, she's…" I wrack my brains for an answer that won't make him say he'll come back later. "She's currently staying with my cousin in Liverpool. My grandmother is looking after myself and my brother just now, but she is at the shop."

The postman looks slightly taken aback to find this speech spilling from the mouth of a tiny twelve year old.

"Okay," he says, trying to keep his smile. Apparently that's what people do when confronted with small children. "Well, somebody's sent her a package, and she has to sign for it. When she gets back, could you tell her to come to the post office to collect it?"

I nod mutely, even though I know I will do nothing of the sort.

"Good girl." He ruffles my hair, and turns his back before he can see me turn to the mirror, annoyed, to fix it.

He gets into his van. I watch him go.

He drives off.

I don't shut the door until the van has gone two streets down, and turned the corner.

It's out of sight.

After the excitement of the Knock At The Door, making pasta sauce seems rather boring.

I feel terribly grown up.

I _answered the door_.

I _talked to the postman._

_And I managed to make him go away._

I'm quite proud.

Jimmy's awfully quiet. He's missing Mummy, I think.

I can tell when Jimmy misses Mummy, because he just mopes around and won't talk to me. He's dangling over the back of the couch, hanging upside down. He won't even look at me.

It's my fault, you see. That Mum's gone.

I'm not sorry.

I think that's the difference between Jimmy and me. He's _sorry._

_Sorry _he killed Dad.

_Sorry _for nearly killing me.

_Sorry _for wrecking the place.

_Sorry _he flips.

Jimmy's _sorry._

I'm not.

Mum was annoying me, the day she died.

"Neena, clean your room." "Neena, wash the dishes." "Neena, pick up those clothes!"

Neena do this, Neena do that! I wasn't her _slave._

I saw red.

Stupid Mum.

She kept going.

"Neena! For God's sake! Your room is a pigsty! What are you, an animal?" She glared at me.

Stupid Mum.

_Stupid._

Next thing I knew, my mother was lying on the floor in a steadily growing pool of her own blood.

Jimmy was crying.

I had two kitchen knives in my hands and a smile on my face.

We don't usually remember our flips, but I can remember my mother's screams. Distantly, like a sound long forgotten, tortured cries of death carried on the winds of my memory.

They help me get to sleep on dark nights.


	5. Chapter 5

The days pass.

Before I know it, it is Jimmy's 12th birthday. I make him a cake, but I can't find any candles, so I shove a lighted match in the middle of the sunken sponge. The smudged white water icing runs down the sides and all over the table, because I couldn't find a plate big enough to put it on. The match burns out and the charred ash gets spread all over the icing when I try to cut it. We eat it anyway.

It somehow seems like an accurate picture of Jimmy and I.

It reminds me of something Mummy used to say. _Jimmy is a flame, Neena, and so are you. _A flame that's burning out too quickly, far too quickly. Burning what's around it. _That's why we stay away, Neena. People burn._

_People burn._

I've always wanted to test that hypothesis.

Jimmy doesn't flip on his birthday. I'm glad. Not just because I don't want to clean up, but because some childish part of me still believes that birthdays should be special. A perfect day.

I have to get rid of that sentiment.

So, I don't test my hypothesis on Jimmy's birthday.

Although I'm sure he would have _adored _a human candle for his cake.

It's a few more months before Jimmy has finally had enough.

"I want to go outside."

He just says it over dinner one day. We're having mashed potatoes. I detest mashed potatoes but they're all we've got left. The potatoes are going mouldy and there isn't much I can do to salvage them, except eat them quickly.

Jimmy carries on eating and waits for me to reply.

"Why?"

I'm not going to let him go outside, of course. His last flip was only two weeks ago. He tried to smother me in the middle of the night.

"I'd like to see the world. I have to test if what Mummy said about it was true."

"You don't believe it's dangerous?"

Jimmy has always shied away from the world because he believes _he _is dangerous.

I don't think he ever thought the world was a match for him.

"No."

The expected answer.

"You think you are dangerous. You told me so after your second flip."

He doesn't say anything for a while. I start to think I've got him.

I haven't, of course.

"I am dangerous. That might be an asset."

Interesting. Jimmy's changed his priorities.

"You're dangerous to other people. Do you care about that?"

"You can't claim that you care about it."

"No. But do you?"

A pause.

"I'm not sure. The older I get the less important it seems."

We clean the dishes in companionable silence.

When Jimmy's asleep, I lock myself in the bathroom and study my reflection in the grimy mirror.

"Jimmy's growing up," I say aloud.

"Jimmy's growing up."

I think of the people outside. The lives that never mattered to me. How Jimmy could uproot their mundane little world, and shatter their silly little normality. All the lives that could be lost.

I can't decide whether I am worried or elated.

**EDIT, 15/08/14: Fixed another error with Jimmy's age in this chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

I turn sixteen on the 24th of May.

Jimmy has been fifteen for 135 days.

I decide he is old enough.

I can't deny I'm nervous.

I haven't regained my sympathy for the Ordinary People, as Jimmy and I have taken to calling them.

But even so, it has been drilled into me since I could crawl that I must _never, ever, _under _any_ circumstances, go outside. I am never to let myself experience society. Never to feel sunlight on my skin.

It seems more and more unfair the more I think about it.

We stand at the door, just like we have always done on every shopping trip, every risky run to the cash withdrawal (because of course we had Dad's number memorised), every time we crept outside to guiltily feel the warmth of summer, or the bone-deep chill of winter. Jimmy no longer holds my hand.

He's taken to being called Jim now.

I don't care. He's always going to be Jimmy to me.

Our clothes are more current than when we used to run to the shops as kids. We no longer dress in relics that could have been stolen from a museum. Jimmy has jeans, and a plain blue t-shirt, and a nondescript navy jacket. I am wearing denim shorts with black tights underneath with a more feminine flowing top. We managed to acquire them with a rather high-risk heist to the neighbour's washing line. Our shoes are the only things that look out of place, as we has to keep our old ones we got from the trunk in the basement, where Mummy would always pull new clothes when we outgrew our old ones.

I open the door this time.

I am loosing Jimmy on the world. I have a strange desire to assume responsibility for what might happen today.

We walk the furthest we have ever walked, right down to the shopping centre. There's so much noise. Light. People. It frustrates me. I want them to _shut up._

Jimmy loves it.

I can see it. He's fallen for the hustle and bustle, finds something satisfying in being the odd one in the crowd but fooling the Ordinary People into thinking he's one of them. That's when I realise for certain.

I will never detain Jimmy. I will never keep him inside a cage. Jimmy was built for this. Designed for deception. Conceived to be clever. His purpose is to outwit.

He can't survive if he can't outsmart somebody.

From this day, Jimmy is going to go out where he wants, when he wants, and I am never going to be able to stop him.

He's outgrown me.

For the first time in my life, I am certain of something:

He's outgrown me. And I am terrified.

**Another short chapter, but things are moving a little faster now :) hope you enjoyed!**


	7. Chapter 7

Jimmy calls me once every year.

It's our little tradition.

He calls me, usually from a drastically different place in the world, and gives me the updates on his web of crime.

He sends me money, too.

I don't bother to ask how he gets my address.

My current home is a cosy little flat in Newcastle. I like it. It's weirdly homely, with its plump burgundy throw cushions and tiny wood-burning stove. I find it slightly disconcerting, but pleasant at the same time.

I move about twice every year. Money is never an object. Jimmy makes sure of that.

Jimmy didn't ever flip for good. I suppose that's strange, considering I lived my childhood expecting it. It occurred to me once, that Jimmy and I never appeared much different to Mummy, and so she must have thought that one day I would flip and stay flipped.

Maybe I have.

I've got no way of knowing.

Jimmy mocks me during his annual calls.

Ordinary Neena, with her shiny new second name, swapped every month like her phone. Ordinary Neena, with her friends as disposable as plastic bags. _Ordinary _Neena.

It really bothers him.

I'm far from ordinary, really. I uproot myself so often because I do little favours for Jimmy, now and again. Sometimes there's somebody who just needs their tea sweetened with a little arsenic. Somebody who's car needs a little nudge over a cliff. A few jewels needing a new home. Children who need to be relocated, just for a little bit, until the appropriate sum is paid off.

I would never admit it to Jimmy, but I enjoy it.

* * *

><p>I'm in the middle of completing a little favour for Jimmy at the moment.<p>

I resist the urge to put my hands over my ears as the noise in the restaurant swells. I'm a waitress, and have been for a few months now. I slip past customers, balancing three trays of drinks on my arms with practiced ease. I gracefully turn to push the door with my back and enter a room with a long table, at the head of which, sits a middle aged man engaged in discussion with a woman on his right, oblivious to all others attempting to catch his attention. I can see from several little details (that none of the Ordinaries will notice, of course) that he is a banker, and in a position of authority. He's married (four years) but has had a string of affairs, none of which have been discovered by his alcoholic wife. He likes the look of the new face at the table. She wasn't there last year. I don't even glance her way .

I dutifully deliver glasses to all the well-dressed people at the table. As I come to the man at the top, I almost imperceptibly run my ring finger along the rim of his glass. I've been careful not to let this finger touch any of the other glasses.

His narrowed eyes don't even stray to his drink as he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. He is too busy concentrating on the ridiculously low neckline of his new interest's dress.

I escape out the door with a murmured excuse. Nobody spares me a second glance as I slide soundlessly into the male bathroom.

There's no-one there, of course. Jimmy took care of that for me. My internalised clock is ticking. It has been approximately three minutes and twenty-six seconds since I laced Martin Janesbury's glass with delayed reaction poison.

I lock myself into a stall and wait.

I don't have to wait too long.

I hear the stumbling footsteps that tell me Janesbury has entered the bathroom. He doesn't bother to lock the door as he retches into the toilet next to mine. Hopefully, he should have only lost motor function about halfway down the corridor. Nobody would have seen.

There's a slump and a shatter as Janesbury passes out, and the wine glass he was carrying smashes on the cold tiles.

"Why would he take the glass?"

The voice is curious, yet still manages to be slinky.

I didn't know Jimmy had drafted her in for this one.

I unlock the door, and with as much dignity as I can call upon, step out, and place one hand on my hip.

"Men are ridiculous," Irene Adler says dismissively to me.

* * *

><p>I walk with Irene back to her car.<p>

"What was his conversation like, then? Pick up anything interesting?" Our heels click on the pavement in unison.

"From Janesbury? Not likely. He was a terrible bore." She sighed.

"Admirable of you to put up with him ogling you like that. He bought the excuse hook, line and sinker."

"Absolutely. I can't believe he swallowed that. As if I could only have been employed that year." She shakes her head with a chuckle. "The idiot."

"Not a big loss to humanity." We've reached her car. Her girl, Kate, is in the driving seat. I open the door to let Irene climb in, graceful and feminine as ever. Irene, by the look of her, outranks me. But I know Jimmy would cut anybody loose and leave them floundering if it meant saving my neck.

The car drives off, the engine silent in the night. I give its rapidly shrinking back a sarcastic wave.

Another job done.

**a/n: Yes! Irene turned up ^^ I didn't actually expect that, but it happened. I hope you enjoyed reading it, because I loved writing it!**

**So, my little baby insane criminals have grown up. Things will hopefully start getting a bit more interesting now ^^**

**Reviews are love!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I know ****_absolutely nothing _****about Newcastle! XD I got what I could from Google maps, but if it's not accurate I'm sorry ^^**

I'm berating myself for not noticing Irene as I walk to the train station.

How could I have missed her? If that had been someone looking for me…

Because there are plenty of people looking for me. My job, no matter how much I enjoy it, is high-risk. I have a lot of enemies. A lot of people who would see me dead, or behind bars.

I don't mind.

The adrenalin is what I _live _for.

I suppose, as I grew up, I came round to Jimmy's way of thinking. The Ordinaries are fun to outsmart. Jimmy once did the jobs I do now. I know it was what he loved most.

He can't do it so much now. He has to control his empire. It's the little people, like me, that run the errands.

Jimmy was always a little bit of a control freak.

I spot my trail seven minutes after I start walking.

He's clever, blending in with the large crowds, overtaking me twice and looping around so I don't suspect him, ditching his coat or acquiring a scarf when he thinks I might see him. His eyes are the giveaway though. I can tell a trail just by their gaze. The eyes are always narrowed, they're always checking behind them subtly, oh-so-subtly. They are the person whose face is forgettable but you can't shake the feeling that you've seen them somewhere before.

I let a guilty smirk of anticipation slip onto my face, for a split second.

I love the chase.

I let him follow me to the station, and then I step up my game.

I walk leisurely into a McDonald's, dropping my bag and my coat at a table as I find the order line. I get myself a burger that I can eat on the go and briskly leave, casually grabbing a jacket hanging over an unoccupied chair and swinging it over my shoulders. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my pursuer sit down to watch the table where I left my coat and bag.

I'm not so over-confident as to say I lost him

But I highly doubted that he'd realise I'd left before I managed to get out.

* * *

><p>Needless to say, I don't go back to my flat.<p>

I manage to use a stolen bus pass to get myself about four towns out. I keep all my money in cash – never credit card, too easily traced – hidden on my person, so when I decide I'm far enough away I whip a wad of notes from my right shoe and start for the high street.

I buy one change of clothes. A new pair of jeans (blue denim, faded), a white blouse, brown leather boots that reach almost to my knee, and a tan flannel jacket. I abandon my waitress's black skirt, fitted blouse and tights in the nearest bin, but I keep my black stiletto heels – they're my best. I carry them in the plastic bag my new clothes came in.

Jimmy will most likely have found me by morning, but until then I'll have to slum it.

There's a kid who's been following me for two streets, but I don't think he's a tail. Still, I duck down an alleyway suddenly and make some random turns. The boy doesn't bat an eyelid.

Not a tail then.

The grimy backstreet I find myself in seems a good enough place to stick to. I don't want to risk finding a hotel – although I'm not at all striking, someone might remember me if people come asking, and I don't want that.

I sit down on a damp stone doorstep and settle down for the night.

* * *

><p>I wake with an uncomfortable crick in my neck.<p>

I've ended up sleeping using the bag containing my heels as a pillow. My new jeans are dirtied and my tan jacket is filthy from the wet muddy film that clings to the bricks I have been leaning against to sleep. My hair is a matted brown bush.

Perfect.

The clothes no longer look new: less suspicious. The hair will detract attention from my face. With a little stumbling, and holding my head, I'll just look like any other hung over girl dragging herself home from a wild night.

I flinch instinctively as I limp out of the alley, where the tall buildings had obscured the sunlight. Even after all these years out in society, among the Ordinaries, I still haven't quite adjusted to the light. My childhood in the darkness of our house did not leave me unaffected.

I draw a few sideways looks from the people about this early in the morning. It's three minutes to six. I'm exhausted. I tell myself that this is a good thing. It adds to the authenticity of my disguise. Even so, I can't stop myself longing for a hot bubble bath and soft sheets to sleep on.

* * *

><p>Jimmy finds me in ten minutes.<p>

It's not Jimmy in person, of course. That would be far too risky. It's his best sniper, though. Sebastian Moran. I'm rather flattered.

"Nice to see you again, Seb," I say, cocking my head to the side with one hand on my hip. "Last time we worked together was Beijing, wasn't it?" I do my best to appear at least slightly in control of the situation. My appearance is not helping my image here.

Seb gives me a cold smile and hands me a mobile phone.

The phone is the latest (unreleased) model from apple. It's brand new, not a scratch on it. I think it's straight out of the box.

Jimmy does have to show off.

I take the phone from Seb. I always insist on calling him Seb. It irritates him.

"Hello?"

A voice that's barely a whisper, with a gentle Irish lilt that matches mine, answers me.

"Been a while, Neena."

It looks as though I'm getting more than my usual annual call this year.

Seb pokes me in the small of my back to get me moving. I'm describing my tail to Jimmy over the phone as we begin to walk. I shoot Seb a scowl and resist the urge to tell him to keep his hands to himself if he wants to keep both of them.

"I liked your little excursion, losing the tail, and all," Jimmy drawls. The phone makes it slightly tinny.

"So," Seb slings his arm around me in an attempt to blend in with the crowd of people we're suddenly walking in as I talk. "Janesbury's taken care of, anybody else you're wanting… out of the way, Jimmy dearest?"

"Don't call me Jimmy, sister mine," Jimmy practically sings down the phone. "There's nobody just yet, so we'll set you up with a nice little flat in the city until something crops up for you."

"Much appreciated, brother."

The beeping monotone that answers tell me Jimmy has hung up.

"London, then?" Seb almost grunts.

"Sounds like it." I grin.

"We're to wait here."

I don't bother to ask what for.

* * *

><p>Waiting for our ride takes longer than Seb thinks it will.<p>

"We can't just stay here," I say firmly. "It's way too conspicuous. We're what, a tourist couple, maybe, and we're leaning against a wall? Someone's going to notice."

Seb groans quietly and squeezes my hand painfully in a gesture that would look tender to anyone passing as he smiles at me gently. "No, J. We are not moving. We're currently in a CCTV blind spot, one that took us a week to find, and for god's sake, a tourist couple? Really? Looking at the state of you, I would say the angle we're going for is drunken student and long-suffering boyfriend."

"Student? Honestly Seb? I knew you fancied me, but I don't look that young, and long-suffering boyfriend, hmm? Don't they say disguises are always a self-portrait?"

He hides his irritation in a quick exhale of breath, like a backward gasp.

I turn to face him, simultaneously shifting out of his grab range. He couldn't tackle me here, it's too public. He knows this, and it's annoying him.

"And our people are slipping if it's taking them a week to find a blind spot. I found five in seven minutes, and that was only from the bus station to my impromptu Holiday Inn."

I shoot him a flashy grin, certain that even though I haven't brushed my teeth in over twenty-four hours, my smile could match the clothes in a Persil advert.

"I'm getting coffee, _Seb._ I take it you don't want anything?"

I turn away and stalk off, with as much dignity as I can muster, before he can reply.

* * *

><p>I don't go straight to a coffee shop.<p>

I zig-zag down the streets for no real reason apart from to frustrate Sebastian. The streets are wide, and busy – there's a bit of a crowd now. Perfect conditions. I ditch the tan jacket the first chance I get, and swap it for a grey hoodie hanging over the back of a bench where a spotty teenage boy is sitting, completely engrossed in texting somebody. A girlfriend, judging by the way he's chewing his lip and tapping his index finger.

My new jumper is flung on and zipped up immediately, and I yank the hood up over my ratty hair. I slouch over as I walk and look down at the pavement. A lock of my hair obscures most of my face. My boots are covered by my jeans.

Voila. Instant teenager.

I keep my teenager disguise for another few streets, before I spot a face in my peripheral that looks vaguely familiar. I can't see enough to know if it's a tail, but I don't like it. Not one bit.

I turn down a small street of flats with a sense of purpose, looking for all the world as if I know where I am going. The flats look expensive, and judging by the cars parked in front of them I'm in the nice part of town. It's nowhere near as busy. There's a small café coming up on my right. A quick glance assures me it had toilets.

Ah well. May as well get coffee when I'm throwing off potential assassins.

The coffee shop is rather quiet, the customers all looking more sleepy than is forgiveable for this time in the morning. They're all staring rather blankly into their cups, or talking and trying to hide their yawns. None of them will remember me.

I order a cappuccino to go. A large one. I could be doing with the caffeine. The girl asks me how many shots of expresso I would like, and I say two.

I have to restrain myself from saying four.

I could really, really use that caffeine.

* * *

><p>I grab my coffee in its disposable thick paper cup and head to the ladies. It's empty, apart from one cubicle. I set my cup down by the sinks opposite the stalls, and peer at the shoes showing in the gap from the mirror, where I pretend to be investigating a chronic case of acne.<p>

There's no acne, of course. My skin is, as ever, flawless.

The shoes are old – a pair of worn red wedges with the tiniest heel. I can see a bulge over the sole, even when weight is off the foot. They've been worn a lot, for a long time, then, to adapt to the wearer's foot like that. The style is old, and I can see the beginning of veins near the ankle, where they would continue up the shin. This is an older lady. I close my eyes (keeping an ear out for footsteps, just in case) and remember when I was ordering my coffee. I can recall an elderly woman with a red jacket and skirt, getting up. She was sitting on my left with a younger couple – a child and their spouse, perhaps? The boy was her son – he handed the woman her bag when she left it on the seat, and the smile he switched on for her had a tinge of exasperation. She was walking very slowly, and she favoured her right leg.

An old, forgetful lady with a slight limp.

Bingo.

I open my eyes as I hear the stall door creak open. A momentary glance in the mirror proves I am right. On every point I cared to guess.

I usually am.

The old girl washes her hands, and moves slowly off, with all the grace of a lumbering, limping horse. One that's old. Decrepit. And slightly bedraggled.

_God, _I hate old age.

I pick up her bag – well of _course _she'd left it in the cubicle – and rifle through it. The style is old, but salvageable. I can make a few adjustments, wear it right, and I'll blend in fine. There's a hairbrush in there, and I start easing the tangles from my knotted hair. It tends to brush well – Mummy always said I'd been blessed with good hair. I'm finished in no time.

There's mints in there, a little tin, and I take one – well, it's my bag now, isn't it? Finders keepers. I sip my coffee and grimace (it's strong stuff) and I sort through the bag's remaining items.

Passport – I've got to ditch it. I'll shred it, first chance I get.

Credit card – I instantly snap it in half, go to a stall and flush it. Too easily tracked. Stolen bag reported, first thing they're going to check is the credit card. Rule number one – only steal cash, only keep cash. I don't need to be caught by the police, of all the morons out there who'd like my head on a platter.

Make up – practically archaic. I'd bin it, if it weren't Chanel. Probably worth something. Well – worth something if you're not Jimmy. To him, this is petty cash. And by extension, it's petty cash to me.

But hey. It's Chanel. I think I'll keep it.

Wallet – strange she didn't keep her credit card in her wallet. From what I know of the bag's previous owner, I can hazard an educated guess that she was using it and forgot to put it back in. I open the wallet (red leather, patent shine, cracked – it's old, I'd say of sentimental value due to the two sets of initials embossed into the back) and flick through the notes. Not much, but a respectable amount. I lift the waistband of my jeans and tuck it safely into the pouch carefully sewn into my underwear.

Well, I have to hide all that money _somewhere._

Off goes my hoodie – I leave it by the sink – and my white blouse is, luckily, clean. My jacket prevented it from getting dirty last night. I manage to shove the plastic bag with my heels into my red one – looks a bit less suspicious that way. It was the only thing linking my previous two disguises.

I tuck my jeans into my boots and my hair behind my ears, grab my coffee and head off again.

Three disguises, two thefts, and it isn't even twelve o'clock yet.

* * *

><p>I don't know I'm being followed until I'm grabbed.<p>

I'm walking back to the pickup site when a hand covers my mouth. I'm ready to jab my elbow into my attacker's stomach when I recognise the stench of familiar cologne.

It's Seb.

_Damn._

He yanks me unceremoniously behind one of the larger cars parked by the pavement.

"Hello, J," He whispers in my ear. His breath is _foul,_ as usual. And he's using the code name he gave me on one of the first missions I ran, when he still considered me his subordinate.

I roll my eyes.

"Hel_lo,_ Seb," I say in my best drawl. "Fancy meeting you here."

He does that annoying thing where he steers me in a direction then pushes me to get me moving.

"We're to be back to the pickup site pronto. Transport isn't pleased." He mutters, as we start to walk briskly back.

Just to be awkward, I insist on moving especially slowly, and stopping to sip my coffee every half a minute.

I hate Transport anyway.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, and I'm reclining on a very comfortable bed, in the best hotel we could find. I'm sipping a glass of very nice red wine, in a black silk nightie. I feel like a movie star.<p>

Seb quickly left after helping me check in, almost casually paying the desk staff an obscene amount of money to "forget" his face. I've been promised I'll be relocated in three days, at the very latest. In the meantime, I'm to stay put, with the curtains closed, and to only eat the food brought to me by a specific employee.

I sit back on my fluffy feather pillows, and go about racking up an astronomical bill on room service.

**Oh my gosh, I've left this story for such a long time. I'm so sorry for the awful wait! ****L**

**I hope you like this chapter. Neena's antics were especially hard to write. I'm sorry if I've overlooked anything or if there's any mistakes.**

**Hopefully there will be another chapter fairly soon!**


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